


the space between us

by duchessas



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: AU, Also fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Tasha is defs not dead - very much alive and kicking, slight reference to past trauma, some reference to past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchessas/pseuds/duchessas
Summary: She comes to him the night before the hearing, bringing with her a burning, righteous fury, an awful lot of metaphors and the fierce loyalty of a true friend.
Relationships: Data/Tasha Yar
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	the space between us

**Author's Note:**

> My brain ran away with me here. I was ill the other week, began BLITZING through Star Trek:TNG, remembered how much I was behind these two and how Tasha deserved MORE ... then this happened. 
> 
> A couple of important points: This is somewhat AU as Tasha is, quite clearly, not dead and swanning around the ship. Data does allude to her 'almost-death' here, but there's no concrete explanation provided in this story. I might go back and write it, but I also have some ideas going forward with this too so might turn this into a lil series... who knows! 
> 
> There is also some sexual content. I don't think it's too graphic?? But just a warning for you anyway. 
> 
> This takes place in Season 2, during the hearing to decide if Data is Starfleet's property or a sentient being. I hope you enjoy!

**this space between us**

A distinct feeling of discontentment has settled over the Enterprise, brought on by the grim announcement of Data’s upcoming hearing, as well as the roles certain members of the crew are expected to play. Commander Riker, burdened by the weight of his task and aged five years overnight, spends his time researching and scowling; the Captain simply shuts himself up in his Ready Room and throws himself into Data’s defence. 

This sombre mood, which affects all of the senior bridge officers, cannot have any emotional impact on Data, but he does note the changes in those he counts as his closest friends. After months of camaraderie, they are suddenly uncomfortable in his presence, unsure of what to say to him even when Data reminds them that they are not capable of hurting his feelings. His words have no effect; most of his friends continue to dance on eggshells around him, consumed with the fear of saying the wrong thing and the looming prospect of his disassembly.

It is because of this that Data is alone the night before the hearing.

Being in his own company has never been an issue: in the years since his activation, Data has grown used to being awake and alert whilst the humans around him sleep. It is during this time that he usually practises the human hobbies he has been striving to perfect, but not tonight. He considers his violin, tucked in its case, casts a glance over his array of books, actually unpacks his painting equipment and sets up his easel before abandoning it.

If he were human, he would say he was experiencing indecision. Data is certainly capable to doing any and all of the options before him, but none of them seem quite right for the evening. Instead, Data stands at his window and looks out at the Beta Quadrant, staring in the direction of the Neutral Zone. His data banks contain the name of every single star he can see, their size and weight, their exact coordinates, as well as the schematics of the Starbase they are currently docked at. Every Starbase ever built, actually. Data has files on every single alien race they have encountered, each mission they have shared, their day-to-day experiences aboard the Enterprise. What will Starfleet do with his memory banks, all of the data he has amassed, if Maddox wins?

Should this information be lost - well, Data might not be able to _feel_ upset about it, but he does recognise the loss that this would be for Starfleet. 

Just as Data adjusts his position, preparing to run a diagnostic on himself ahead of the hearing, the chime of the door echoes through his quarters. This is unexpected: it is late. Data knows full well that most of his friends will have either just finished their shift or retired to bed.

The most reasonable conclusion is Captain Picard, coming to discuss some intricacy of Data's hearing, but when Data opens the door he finds Tasha on the doorstep, clearly just off the Bridge and apparently quite surprised to find herself there.

“Lieutenant Yar,” Data says, looking down at her. “I was not expecting you.”

Tasha attempts a smile, but what she accomplishes is more like a grimace. She wears her tension in her shoulders, in the tight lines around her mouth.

“To be honest, I didn’t exactly plan on coming here,” she replies, linking her fingers together in front of her. “I was heading to my quarters and I thought that you might be alone. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

Data steps aside, giving her sufficient space to enter his quarters. Tasha slips past him, halting in her tracks when she encounters his paintings, lined up against the far wall and organised by time period and the artistic style Data was trying to emulate. They have well and truly captured her interest. Without a word to him, Tasha moves towards the canvases, her lips parted slightly as she drops into a crouch so that she can survey them properly.

“There are quite something, Data,” Tasha tells him, examining a seascape she is on eye-level with.

The picture in question depicts towering grey waves capped with white, jagged rocks that jut from the dull earth like the teeth of a monster and, inconsequential against the dominating force of nature, one tiny human figure. Tasha reaches out, her finger hovering inches away from the minuscule form.

“I was emulating the style of Earth’s Romantic movement,” Data informs her. “It is an incredibly ancient style where artists tried to impress the idea that nature was so much greater and more powerful than mankind.”

“I can see that,” Tasha says softly, still looking at the little figure. “It’s true though, isn’t it? Even now, out exploring the galaxy, we are still constantly reminded of how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things.”

“Quite,” Data agrees, realising that Tasha is the most melancholy he has ever seen her. “I did not know you were interested in art. Perhaps you might be interested in something more modern?”

She finally drags her attention away from the painting, her gaze flickering up to his face.

“Have you done any paintings of the Enterprise? Or of the crew?”

“An interesting idea, one I had not considered," Data says, scrutinising the paintings once more. They range from fields studded with peaceful cows to black holes, but there are none of the people he sees each day. "I have been trying to perfect various styles from history, rather than translating my experiences to the canvas. If I have the opportunity in the future, I will prioritise this.”

As soon as he has articulated the final sentence, the small smile that had quirked the corners of Tasha’s lips upward slips.

“If you have the opportunity,” she echoes dully. “Yes. The hearing.”

Heaving a sigh, Tasha straightens up and looks directly into his face. She is the first person in days to actually hold his gaze without flinching away from him like he is already condemned. In fact, she is actually studying him very closely, almost as though she is trying to commit his features to memory.

“Would you like to be seated?” Data offers, gesturing towards the couch. “I will get you a beverage. Would you care for a peppermint tea, or perhaps chamomile?”

“Interesting options,” Tasha says, crossing to the sofa Data has installed for the purpose his his guests only.

“I have observed that you have something on your mind,” Data replies, crossing to the replicator. “Both peppermint and chamomile tea are noted for their soothing, calming effects. I thought it might bring you some relief.”

“What makes you think that?” she asks sharply. “I’m fine.”

Even though Tasha is now seated on the standard issue sofa, she is in constant motion, unable to sit still. She jiggles her left leg, smoothes a hand over the fabric of her uniform, twists a finger through her short blonde hair. All of this has been noted, stored and catalogued in Data’s brain, and he repeats this back to her in answer to her question.

“You’re too observant” she says. Her words suggest a complaint, but her tone has softened.

“Tasha,” Data says, placing a glass mug of chamomile tea down on the table at Tasha’s elbow. “You claim otherwise, yet your actions display clear signs of distress.”

In response to this, Tasha manages to dredge up a wry smile and makes a small huffing sound - a feeble attempt of laughter. The shaky smile is also a mere shadow of her usual grin. In Data’s experience, Tasha does not usually force herself to smile if she does not want to and he notes that the modification of her behaviour on this occasion is strange.

“I’m sorry Data,” she says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Data sits down next to her, angling his body so that he can better see her. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to discuss my feelings. I just didn’t want you to be alone the night before tomorrow’s circus.”

She utters the last word with particular venom, her disdain immediately apparent.

“This is a very thoughtful gesture, Tasha,” Data tells her seriously. “But I am confused. There is no circus lined up for tomorrow - or for any point in the coming days.”

His reply elicits genuine amusement in Tasha, and he is pleased to see that her smile now reaches her eyes.

“Not a literal circus, Data,” she says fondly. “I was using a metaphor for this so-called hearing tomorrow. It’s not _fair_ that Commander Maddox gets to throw his weight around and turn your your existence into a spectacle.”

“Tasha, my understanding is that the hearing will be conducting in an orderly fashion and conforming to-“

“No, Data,” Tasha interrupts, suddenly seizing both of his hands in hers. Data recognises pure, burning fury in her eyes, the rage bleeding into her voice. “I’m sorry. I know I’m confusing you. What I’m trying to say is that Commander Maddox is flouting some of the most basic principles we uphold in Starfleet by insisting on this hearing. He’s trying to take away your freedom to choose, your very _existence_ , based on his own selfish desire to advance his research - and yes, Data, I know this could be significant scientific moment for Starfleet, but even if he creates hundreds of androids, it’s still for his own gain. It’s making mockery out of all that we stand for.”

She continues to grasp his hands, the temperature of her skin pleasant and her grip firm. Data has always associated Tasha with heat: there is unfailing warmth in her genuine, sun-bright smiles, radiating off the surface of her skin, in the fervour of her words. Heat and fire characterise her, complimenting her burning passion, her strong beliefs, the principles she upholds each and every day. 

“Besides,” Tasha continues, clearly no less agitated and still clinging to him. “If he gets away with it, we could _lose_ you.”

For the first time, her voice cracks.

“I will admit that I do not wish to be disassembled,” Data admits, looking from Tasha’s bitten nails to her face. “It is not a favourable outcome when I enjoy my life aboard the Enterprise. For a long time, I have considered myself to be a man, but should Commander Maddox prove-“

“Don’t,” Tasha snaps, pulling her hands free and rocketing to her feet. She begins to pace the floor in front of him, her brow puckered. “You _are_ a man. It’s completely ridiculous that Maddox is suggesting otherwise.”

Data stares at her. Tasha’s reaction conveys extreme distress - a potent mixture of fury, fear and desperation - and yet Data cannot fully comprehend the cause of this.

“You are upset,” Data says, tracking her movements. “I did not mean to cause you pain. Please accept my apology.”

His words halt her. She exhales, very still, standing in front of the window. The lights of the Starbase illuminate her form, softening her edges and painting her outline in silver. Looking at Tasha in this exact moment is remarkable, Data thinks. He vows, if he survives the hearing, to recreate this moment, committing the image of Tasha, star-stained, to canvas.

“Oh, Data.” The fury in Tasha’s voice is gone, washed away by a sudden tenderness. “You didn’t make me angry. I’m furious at this situation for you.”

“I cannot feel anger, nor frustration,” Data informs her, rising to his feet and moving to Tasha’s side. “But I appreciate you feeling these emotions on my behalf. You are a very good friend.”

Again, he witnesses the impact his words have on Tasha. Her face crumples and she drags her fingers through her already-tousled hair.

Based on experience, Data knows that he should offer some kind of comfort - this is something humans do when someone they care about is visibly upset. What is particularly striking in this case is that Data experiences what he can only describe as a compulsion to make Tasha feel better.

The next question is _how_.

When Data has watched his friends and crewmates reassuring each other, he has seen a broad spectrum of behaviour. Captain Picard uses inspirational speeches to lift spirits and draw out the boldness that lurks deep within each of those he commands; Counsellor Troi has a particularly gentle tone that works effectively with the total honesty she delivers; Geordi relies on his easy-going nature and genuine compassion. Data himself usually tries to offer hard facts, giving those around him something to cling onto. This has had mixed success.

But, in this situation, Data does not think that any of these options are appropriate.

After all, Data knows Tasha well. They have spent many hours together, cultivating a friendship that has weathered several storms. On numerous occasions, they have stood shoulder to shoulder in near-death situations and shared experiences that have established a deep bond between them. Data has gathered and stored considerable information on Tasha during this time, and because of this he disregards the notion of imitating someone else.

Instead, he mirrors Tasha’s earlier action by reaching his hand out to her so that he can link their fingers together. 

Both of them look down, Tasha swallowing hard. 

“Perhaps you and I could go for a run,” Data suggests. “Or to practise your Aikido.”

Momentary surprise flits across Tasha’s face before comprehension dawns.

“You think I need to blow off some steam,” she says.

It’s not a question, but a statement. Data cocks his head to the left, once more attempting to locate the precise definition of this phrase.

“It means doing something physical as a means of calming down,” Tasha explains before chuckling. “I’ve never realised how often I speak in idioms and metaphors.”

“Ah.” Data pauses, filing away the information in his memory banks. “I have observed that exercise and physical exertion decreases human stress levels significantly due to the release of endorphins.”

“It does,” Tasha agrees softly. She has made no move to withdraw her hand from his, squeezing his fingers lightly. “It’s a great suggestion Data, but I’d rather just stay here with you. If you don’t mind, of course.”

Another unexpected answer from Tasha. Data had anticipated her accepting the offer of exercise, knowing her to be a keen athlete and proud of her skill; her decision to remain with him is welcome, but not one he had seen coming.

“I do not mind at all,” Data says. “I enjoy your company immensely, however I do not wish for you to feel obligated to stay. As I have outlined, it is not possible for me to experience fear when considering tomorrow’s trial and I will be able to function within normal parameters. If you would prefer to leave and pursue another activity, I would encourage you to do so.”

“Data,” Tasha says, her voice barely above a whisper. She steps closer to him, her face angled up towards his. Now, Data can identify the seventeen different components in her shampoo and conditioner, as well as the mixture of lavender oil, dabbed at her neck, and sweat. “I know you’re not scared, but friends stick together in times like this. What would you do, if our positions were reversed?”

“A difficult question,” Data notes. “It is not possible for _you_ to be disassembled. However, a similar scenario would involve you being put on trial and facing capital punishment, so I will envision this to answer your question.”

Tasha looks as though she might laugh but presses her lips together, stifling this.

Again, Data is confronted by multiple possibilities. If one of his friend’s was facing losing their life and he was there, at their side, he could offer statistics, outlining potential outcomes that may arise from different scenarios. Alternatively, he could make a hot beverage, something he has learnt is a widely accepted course of action when someone is upset. He even has taken the time to programme each of his crewmate's favourite hot drinks into his memory banks should he need to do this. 

But, once more, Data arrives at the conclusion that this is not just any friend or a crewmate: this is Tasha. And so, Data diverges from his usual programming again.

“I believe I would act as you are now,” he informs her. “I would stay with you. From our friendship, as well as my knowledge of your personality and your background, I have arrived at the conclusion that you would appreciate the companionship of a friend.”

Tasha looks down at their still-clasped hands, her skin a stark contrast to the chalk white of Data’s. When she speaks, she keeps her head lowered.

“You’re special to me, Data,” Tasha says very quietly. “I hope that-“

She cuts herself off, shaking her hand and sighing.

“You are also special to me, Tasha,” Data replies when it becomes apparent she is not going to finish her sentence. Their bodies have moved even closer, so close that the distance between them has narrowed to mere centimetres. Tasha lifts her head slowly, each breath now ghosting across Data’s chin. “I do appreciate that you are here with me know, offering your support. I am also grateful for the memories we have shared together. If this is my last night as a sentient being, I am very pleased to spend it in your company.”

For a moment, Tasha looks like she is going to say something. But, whatever it might have been, never comes and instead they stay there, the silence between them easy. It is only after four minutes and forty-nine seconds that Tasha carefully detaches her hand from his and moves towards her tea.

“So, let's say that this _is_ your last night. What do you want to do?” Tasha asks him, now perching on the arm of the sofa and sipping her drink. Data knows that there temperature will have cooled, but Tasha doesn’t seem to mind.

Initially, Data suggests that they listen to music - he has been experimenting with layering Earth songs over music from alien races and has been trying unsuccessfully to persuade Geordi to listen to the results of a Tchaikovsky track mixed with a Romulan hymn for the last four days. Tasha sits through two tracks, her scepticism increasing, before Data finds himself explaining to Tasha the intricacies of the violin solo and then retrieving his violin, placing the instrument in her hands to explain the fundamentals of playing. 

“Hold the bow parallel to the bridge,” Data instructs, standing behind her and cupping his hand under her elbow to adjust her arm.

Tasha is malleable, allowing him to shift her body and move her limbs, so that he can ensure the violin is cradled beneath her chin and the bow is in position for an A. Despite his efforts, the sound that emerges from the violin is truly terrible: a grating noise that makes Tasha flinch beneath his touch.

“Try once more,” Data urges as he gently manipulates the positioning of her arm, bringing it higher. And then, when an A reverberates around the room: “Good. That was much improved.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be the next Mozart,” Tasha says, turning to flash him an impish grin.

“I think you have potential,” Data tells her. “That was much better. Now, try without me.”

He steps back, watching Tasha shift her posture to emulate the one he had guided her into, her back straight. She handles his violin like it’s a precious object, drawing the bow across the strings once more and glancing back at him for his approval.

“Good,” Data says. “Good.”

Tasha smiles again, placing the violin and bow carefully back in the case and flexing her fingers.

“You have incredible patience,” she says. “That was _one_ note and it took a very long time to get me there.”

As soon as the violin has been set down, they gravitate towards each other again. It is a little like they are in orbit of each other, both of them correcting their individual course based on the movements of the other person - this is a fitting comparison, Data decides. The whole experience is a novel one; a nuance in his programming that he is keen to explore in greater detail when he can. 

"Tell me, Tasha," Data says, shifting the subject. "So far. we have spent an enjoyable one hundred and twelve minutes together. What would you like to do next, that is appropriate for one's potential last night alive?" 

Something wicked gleams in Tasha's eyes. 

'Well, Data," she says, barely suppressing a laugh. "Most humans would get very drunk and do something very stupid." 

"Stupid?"

There is no mistaking the mischief in her smile now.

"You know," she says airily, waving her hand through the air. "Cause trouble and tell someone you've always hated them. Or tell someone else you love them and always have. Get a tattoo. Have sex. I don't know, do a bungee jump. When faced with death, people suddenly tend to do all the things they've wanted to do but have been too scared to. It makes them decide to bite the bullet - to just _do it_." 

Data notices that Tasha has instinctively added an explanation to her speech, already anticipating his confusion at the idiom tacked onto the end of her speech. He appreciates it. 

"I have never hated anyone, as I do not have the capacity to do so," Data replies, considering her ideas. "By your first suggestion, I should reach out to Lore and try to establish a friendship with him. However, I estimate that this particular course of action will have a low chance of success. What would you do?" 

Tasha physically starts, as though she is caught off guard by his question. This reaction surprises Data; he had thought - expected, even - that Tasha would know the value he places on her opinion. 

She takes a minute before answering, moving her fingers lightly over the amber curves of the violin to trace its form. A small furrow has appeared between her brows, a clear indication of how hard she is thinking. 

"I don't know," she finally responds, still tracking her finger's path along the waist of the violin. "I'm a bit more rational that I would be if I were in your exact position, so it's hard to say. I _think_ I'd seek out the people I care about most." 

"A suitable idea," Data nods approving. "It is a good thing you are here with me, as I do not need to seek you out." 

The smile Tasha now rewards him with has the brilliance of a star going supernova. 

They pass a few hours, locked in fierce games of chess. Tasha puts up an impressive show before insisting on teaching him an archaic card game that she calls _Cheat_. Data has a suspicion that she chooses this for the simple reason the game relies heavily on bluffing, allowing her to win. As the game progresses, Tasha's posture shifts into one of total relaxation, her legs curled beneath her and an arm propped on the back of the sofa. 

“You are adept at bluffing,” Data tells her when she triumphs for the third time running.

“You have to bluff a fair few times in this career,” Tasha points out gleefully, tossing her cards down in front of her. “You, my friend, need to work on how gullible you are.”

“Due to our friendship, I find it difficult to believe that you will deceiving me, even when we are playing a competitive game,” Data replies, shuffling the cards at lightning speed. “However, perhaps I should write a programme specifically for competitive games, in order to override this trust.”

“Don’t do _that._ You’ll steal my glory!”

“I do not think anyone will be able to steal your glory.”

Two spots of pink - pale, but noticeable to Data’s enhanced eyesight - blossom on Tasha’s cheeks. Her hand twitches minutely, as if she was going to move it, but changed her mind.

“It’s getting late,” she says softly, dragging her fingers through her hair. “I think I need a coffee. Or maybe some tiramisu.”

“If you require sleep, I can escort you back to your quarters,” Data offers. There are dark bruises beneath her eyes, a badge of tiredness from her long shift on the Bridge.

Tasha shakes her head, resting her head in the palm of her hand. “I’m staying, Data.”

“Very well,” Data nods, recognising that it will be a waste of his time to argue with her; Tasha is renowned for her stubborn streak. “I am pleased that you are staying. If I may observe. you seem calmer than you did on arrival.”

“Just don’t mention Commander Maddox and I’ll stay this way.”

“I will not pursue that course of conversation with you,” Data agrees. “But I would seek your honest opinion. The Captain is going to attempt to prove my sentience and my humanity in the hearing tomorrow. Do you think you would be swayed in my favour by the evidence?”

Tasha does not reply straight away instead focusing her attention on toeing off her boots. Then, after nudging them under the table, she stretches her legs out in front of her, the bones clicking, so that she can examine her socks.

“I don’t need to be swayed by the evidence,” she says slowly, her fingers now toying with the collar of her uniform. Initially, she addresses her feet, but now she looks right at Data. “I _know_ you, Data. For me, the evidence is, and has always been, overwhelmingly in your favour. You experience everything afresh, with the wonder of a child, and that makes you so much more human than any of us.”

The words tumble out of her mouth and into the air, hanging there, heavy with the weight of the truth. As soon as Data processes the sentences, he knows that this will be a memory he stores away and replays over and over again.

“Thank you, Tasha. I truly appreciate the sentiments.”

“If only they’d let me be witness in your trial, hey?” Tasha quips, still fingering the fabric of her collar.

“Indeed. I do have another matter which I would like to discuss with you,” Data continues, now watching Tasha intently. There are a few people - a mere handful - whose facial expressions Data can read and decode with a high level of accuracy, and Tasha is included in this number. “My intention is not and never has been to cause you upset or embarrassment, but I am concerned that our interaction during the Polywater incident might come up in the hearing.”

Data expects anger. His calculations suggest she will be livid at the prospect of other people finding out the details of her private life, which is something he has guarded closely, especially those she respects further up the chain of command.

But he is wrong: Tasha responds with one of the least likely outcomes Data had predicted. Another of her smiles, this one undeniably tinged with affection. Apparently, Data’s accuracy in predicting Tasha's reactions is way off tonight and he is finding it nearly impossible to anticipate her responses. Although this is relatively new to him, it is refreshing. It makes him feel more human.

“Oh, Data,” Tasha says, reaching out curve her palm over his cheek. “Quite frankly, if it helps your case, you can tell all of Starfleet. In fact, I’d write it on the hull of the ship in neon green paint.”

“So you do not mind?” Data asks, staying still under her touch as he finds it unfavourable that she should remove her hand.

“If it helps, not at all.”

“I appreciate this, Tasha. I will repeat my statement from earlier: you are a good friend.”

“So you keep telling me,” Tasha murmurs, sweeping her thumb over the bioplast surface of his cheek. “You’ve always been a good friend, Data.”

Another pause.

“May I ask another question, Tasha?” Data asks, reaching up to curl his fingers around her wrist. Her pulse thrums beneath her skin, slightly elevated, the flutter of hummingbird wings against his fingertips.

Tasha nods in response. Gently, Data peels her hand away from his face and turns it over, examining the inside of her palm. With one long, pale finger, Data traces the lines engraved there, committing the way they intersect with each other and then divert in their separate directions to his memory banks. Tasha squirms.

“I apologise.”

“No, no,” Tasha shakes her head, leaning towards him. “It just tickles. Go on. Your question.”

“When we discussed what you would do, should you find yourself in my situation and facing imminent death, you mentioned seeking out a partner for sexual intercourse,” Data says, watching her brows lift slightly at his statement. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable but, if you are agreeable, this is a course of action I would like to pursue with you.”

This time, Tasha cannot suppress the laughter that bubbles up from her chest.

“Sorry, Data, sorry,” she says quickly, her eyes crinkling as she captures his hand in hers. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just that is the most unique way anyone has ever tried to get me into bed.”

“I do not have a bed,” Data informs her. And then, because she has not answered him: “If you do not wish to be intimate with me, I cannot be offended. It is completely up to you.”

Tasha surveys him, her amusement disappearing as quickly as it had come, pursing her lips slightly as she appraises him. This is an expression Data knows well: it is one of consideration, an expression she wears whenever she is assessing something. 

“No, Data, that is definitely not what I am saying,” she relies, settling her chin on her knee. “But I am interested to know why you want to. Do you _want_ to have sex with me?”

Data tilts his head to the left once more.

“I considered it as an option when you identified sex as one of the things you would do in my situation,” Data explains, still watching her. “As I respect and trust you and your judgement, it seems acceptable to do as you suggested.”

“I understand and appreciate that, Data. But I want to know if this something that you _want_ to do, rather than something you're doing because you think you should.”

That same question, repeated. Impossible to answer - or usually impossible to answer, because no matter what Data says, he usually hurts someone’s feelings. He looks deep into Tasha’s eyes, which are the same shade of blue as pure and brilliant a summer's sky.

“I found the intercourse with you an enjoyable experience, even under the influence of Polywater,” Data tells her, calling up the memory file of Tasha, framed in her bedroom doorway, the deep blue silk vivid against her pale skin. “In answer to your question, I do not know if I experience _want_ in the same way as you, but I do choose to engage with certain things over others. For example, I choose to paint or read when given a choice between that and physical activity. I enjoy History and Science more than other subjects. These conscious choices to pursue particular activities over others imply that I have been programmed to exhibit preference. In this case, my preference is you.”

His words are met with silence. Tasha has turned her head so that she is looking out of the window, but even though she is no longer looking at him, Data can see the way her teeth worry her lower lip.

“I did not mean to cause you distress,” Data tells her. “I withdraw my request.”

“You haven’t upset me,” Tasha replies, glancing at him. Data can see the sadness in her eyes. “Really, Data. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I cannot experience worry.”

“True. What you said just made me think that this trial is a farce. There is no doubt in my mind that you are so much more than circuitry and processors. The fact you have to go through this just... It makes me so _sad_.” 

Suddenly,Tasha uncurls herself from the position she has twisted her body into, untangling her limbs so that she can surge forward, climbing into his lap. The solid weight of her presses down on top of him, her thighs bracketing his hips.

Of course, Data’s strength means he could move her easily with only one hand, but he doesn't. His hands instinctively hands move to rest on the sweep of Tasha’s waist - presumably in response to yet another piece of genius programming, embedded in his circuits by Dr Soong. Tasha's hands come to rest lightly on his shoulders as she looks down at him, drinking him in. 

“With regards to your question,” she breathes, leaning down to place a feathery kiss on the underside of his jaw. “My answer is _yes_.” 

Without the influence of Polywater, Data discovers just how much the incident had slowed him down, limiting his capacity and his reducing his functions to a crawl. Now, should he choose, Data knows that he could run several simultaneous processes without interrupting the experience he is about to share with Tasha - she wouldn’t even know what he was doing. But, when he tips her head back, exposing the column of her neck to his mouth, Data deliberately aborts all other programmes, leaving Tasha, and the way she moves her hips against his, the only thing he is thinking about.

It is rough, urgent: their mouths are hot and their kisses persistent, their hands insistent. Data follows Tasha’s lead as she makes fast work of his uniform, yanking his shirt over his head and trailing her hands and lips over his chest. In turn, he is quick to divest her of her uniform, the fabric almost tearing in his hands, coming away to expose supple muscles, the distinct triad of freckles on her left hip, the black lace of her bra.

There is so much to explore. His hands rove over her body, running over the knobs and bumps of her spine, grasping her hips so that his thumbs sit in the dip of the bone, cupping the back of her neck so that he can bring their mouths crashing together again. It isn't long before he eases her down onto her back, fingers hooking through her underwear so that he can slide her knickers down over her legs.

For the first time, Data recognises the need for a bed in his quarters.

When Data looks up, having cast the scrap of lace aside, Tasha has propped herself up on her elbows and is looking down at him, hair mused and pupils blown. A small amount of sweat has begun to collect in the hollow of her throat and her chest rises and falls rapidly. She manages to look incandescent, but also like she is about to come apart at the seams.

“You will tell me if you wish to stop?” Data enquires, kneeling now with his hands on her knees. He stays very still, not moving a single millimetre, awaiting her response.

“I don’t want you to stop,” Tasha says, as though this should be obvious. “Quite the opposite. But if I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, Data lowers his head so that he can use his tongue to map out the inside of her thighs before using his mouth to bring her off, listening to the shuddering gasps and feeling her fingers knot tightly in his hair, pulling _hard_ when pushes her to that intense explosion of pleasure. He knows when it hits: her body goes momentarily rigid, a moan being drawn from her, before she sags down onto the sofa, loose-limbed.

Data sits back on his heels, waiting. It takes 9.7 seconds for Tasha to come back to herself, her breathing still ragged as she manages to push herself upright, clambering to her feet. For what feels like the first time all evening, Data correctly anticipates her next movement: he stands quickly and lifts her easily in his arms, allowing her to wrap her legs tightly around his waist. Although he doesn’t need any support - she may as well be weightlessfor him - Data leans Tasha's back against the wall and presses into her in one fluid movement.

That sense of urgency, of desperation, has returned. Tasha clings to him, head thrown back and eyes half-shut, teeth sinking deep into her lower lip. The rhythm is fast and furious, their bodies moving together, until it is over and Tasha is practically whimpering as another orgasm takes her.

It is then that she goes limp in Data’s arms, her head resting on the wall as she tries to catch her breath. Data remains solid and immovable, holding her in position and monitoring her reactions.

“Data,” she whispers after two minutes and thirty-four seconds, her voice hoarse. Data leans closer, feeling the sweat slick on her skin. “Data, you can put me down now.”

Data obliges, setting her down on the floor - and immediately catching her when her legs wobble beneath her weight.

“You are unsteady,” he says, keeping both hands firmly on her lest she nose-dive to the carpet.

“I am," Tasha agrees, allowing him to guide her back to the sofa where she drops like a stone. "This is not something I would normally disclose to _anyone_ , but this is you so I think we’re past all that.”

“Disclose what?”

Tasha opens her eyes. She is still flushed, but she looks incredibly smug, practically oozing with pleasure.

“I’ve never had two orgasms back to back like that before," she says, almost proud. 

Data is not sure of the appropriate response to this, but Tasha is now hauling his arm so that it is around her shoulders.

“I have never done this with anyone but you,” Data says, looking down at the crown of her head. “We appear to have established a sense of intimacy."

Tasha makes a humming sound as she leans against him, boneless. 

“We are intimate,” she says, head on his shoulder. “Saying that we've deepened the intimacy works better.”

“Quite,” Data agrees, nodding even though she is not looking at him. “Normally, humans sleep after sex. Would you like to?”

“No,” Tasha replies, even though she sounds sleepy. Her body is cooling now, the temperature of her skin dropping.

Another moment passes.

“Was that satisfactory?”

“More than satisfactory, Data. It was actually rather wonderful.”

Data immediately makes a note of the particular sub-strand of the programme and the outcome. Tasha shifts again, leaning her head back to look up at him.

“Just to make it clear, Data,” she says, suddenly serious. “I don’t want you to be disassembled. I’d miss you.”

“I cannot miss you,” Data replies, compelled to be honest. “Not in the same way. When we thought you had died, I was incapable of feeling sadness like everyone else. However, I did experience a sense of loss and I felt your absence. I do not wish that for you.”

“I’m going to be outside that room tomorrow,” Tasha vows, her voice low and dangerous. “I swear, I am going to give Commander Maddox hell for this. He'll regret the day he set his sights on disassembling you.”

It is in this moment that Data catches a glimpse of the sheer grit and steel deep inside of Natasha Yar that enabled her to survive fifteen years on Turkana IV.

After fourteen minutes have elapsed, Tasha initiates sex once more, dragging Data down on top of her, but this time they move moreslowly, their kisses softer. There is a gentleness to the experience, where Data buries his face in her neck, splays his hands wide against her skin and listens to the sounds Tasha makes as he carefully takes her apart only to put her back together again, leaving her pink-cheeked and panting beneath him.

“You’re lucky you don’t sweat,” Tasha mutters afterwards, wiping her hand over her forehead as Data hovers above her, watching. “I’m dripping.”

“You are not actually dripping,” Data corrects, his fingers collecting beads of sweat from along her ribcage.

Tasha’s laugh his tired, her eyelids heavy: sleep beckons her and she seems less able to fight it this time. Data suggests he leave her sleep, but she shakes her head vehemently.

“Stay,” she insists, wriggling over so that she is pressed against the back of the sofa. “If I fall asleep, wake me up.”

Although Data verbally agrees, he knows that if she does drift off, he will not disturb her.

She holds on for a while though, chin resting on his chest and her eyes half-closed as she asks him questions then listens to his answers. Data describes his early years in Starfleet, finding it refreshing that Tasha doesn’t waste time asking how he felt over and over again. In turn, she tells him about her own Academy experience, the reasons she chose to enter into Security and the hard acclimatisation following on from her traumatic adolescence. The more she talks, the more her words begin to slur and her sentences start to merge together. It is at this point that Data slowly stops talking, allowing her to succumb to insistent tug of sleep.

“I am very glad you spent the night with me,” he tells her when she is barely hanging on to consciousness. “I am very pleased we have done this."

“I’m glad we had this too,” Tasha murmurs against his shoulder, her words running together so much that a normal human would have found her response unintelligible.

Even after sleep has totally carried Tasha away, Data stays beneath her, as still as a marble statue so that he does not disturb her. He _could_ slide himself out from underneath the limbs she has flung over his body, but he does not. There is something special about the solid weight of her sprawled over him, something that Data wants to prolong for a while, and so he simply settles himself down and begins to run through his files, searching for anything that might be of use in his hearing.

-:-

After the verdict and the shaking of Captain Picard’s hand, they emerge from the hearing to find the senior bridge crew gathered outside the door. Counsellor Troi and Wesley are perched on the uncomfortable plastic chairs that line the corridor, whilst the others remain on their feet, worry etched across their faces.

The first person Data claps eyes on is Tasha, probably because he deliberately seeks her out. She is standing stiffly, her arms folded across her chest and her back ram-rod straight, her frost expression actually bearing a striking similarity to Worf, who is at her shoulder.

“Well?” Counsellor Troi asks, rising from her seat.

Data looks at them - all of them, gathered, waiting to hear his fate. He can recognise their anxiety and fear for him, all of them on tenterhooks. Before he responds, he turns his head, looking directly at Tasha and holding her blue gaze steadily.

“Captain Picard won. I am not going to be disassembled.”

Tasha visibly sags with relief, passing a hand over her eyes. The others react too: Geordi lets out a loud whoop of delight, clasping Data’s shoulder, and Counsellor Troi smiles. Instantly, their fear has lifted and they are transformed, grinning and laughing.

The exception is Tasha, who drops her hand from her face, steps neatly around Worf and towards Data. Before anyone else can react, she wraps her arms around his torso and squeezes him tightly. 

“It is a lucky day for Commander Maddox,” he says quietly in her ear, his words for her alone. “I would place my odds on you besting him in a fight.”

"I'd wipe the floor with him and string his insides up like bunting," she whispers back, her hold momentarily tightly.

Then she chuckles and she releases him, moving back and allowing Deanna forward. But she does beam at him, a smile infused with such joy that it could, Data thinks, easily light up a planet. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I'd be ever so touched if you chose to leave Kudos/a comment!


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